The Cheerleader's Guide to Roller Derby

Chapter Seven: Chocolate Meringue Pie at Three O'Clock

"Whoa. What is that smell?" Traci said when I picked her up for school on Monday morning.

Conor had been great about helping me get my gear in order at the rink. He'd encouraged me to use pair number two of Logan's skates, the smaller, tighter ones. He'd fixed them up with new wheels (Prairie Stone Panther Purple!), new bearings, toe stops, and all the other whatevers that skates needed to work properly too.

He hadn't offered any assistance with the stench though. And, apparently, no amount of pine tree shaped air fresheners could defeat the odor. "It's, uh, Mom was cleaning out the garage and came across a bunch of Logan's old sport stuff. She wants me to drop it off at Goodwill after school," I tried.

"Pull over there," Traci said in a voice made nasally and strange by pinching her nostrils.

"Where?" I asked.

"By that dumpster." She pointed. "Even the people who shop at Goodwill have noses, you know."

I wasn't exactly crazy about the smell either but my first roller derby practice was that afternoon and I didn't have the time (or cash) to replace all my gear before then. Traci would just have to deal. And if she could deal silently, that would be a plus.

I hurt so much all over that even the vibration of sound made me feel like cringing. There was my butt, sure. I'd fallen on it more times that weekend than I had when I was first learning front handsprings. I'd been afraid to peek but I was reasonably certain there was a bruise the size of a galaxy blooming back there.

And it wasn't just that. My calves, my inner thighs and my poor blistered feet ached too. For once, I wished I'd actually listened to my mom. She was the one who'd suggested I continue my cheer conditioning workouts while I was sidelined. "You don't want to start getting all jiggly in the middle again, Chantal, now do you?" she'd said.

And for the record, no, I did not want that. I'd spent most of my childhood being "jiggly". It had taken a summer's worth of wired jaw, liquid diet, and more ab crunches than I could count to melt off the last of my baby fat. It was not something I wanted to repeat. Ever.

So I had kept up my conditioning. Kind of. Sort of. And except for those first few weeks after the unfortunate incident, when I'd drowned my sorrows in mocha frappes (non-skinny, extra whip), I'd continued to watch my diet too.

That part wasn't too hard. Mom didn't keep much more than diet soda, skim milk, and the ingredients for salad in the fridge at home. I still ate lunch at the cheerleading table at school too. Some of the girls there measured their salad dressing portions by the eye dropper.

About the only times I struggled with food were those rare occasions when Dad's schedule fitted up against mine and I got together with him and his new family on a Sunday afternoon. Then it was full on pizza palooza time. Christine was always trying to shove food in my face. It was her fault that Ms. Hernandez kept insisting I had "body issues". She'd even written a letter to my counselor outlining her "fears for my health".

Please. I was not that skinny. I was healthy. I was fit too. At least, I thought I was until I woke up after two days of roller skating with a thirteen (and a half) year-old. Then, like I said, ow.

I tried not to show it though. I tried not to show any weakness at school.

Everyone thinks that cheerleaders are just mean. We're not. Okay, I'm not anyway. I'm just in finely tuned survival mode. There is only so much room at the top of any popularity pyramid. It's eat or be eaten (figuratively, of course) up there. And if you doubt that, go ahead and let your guard down around someone like Cassidy Anderson, Traci Olson, Felicity, or even that snot wannabe, Moni Fredrickson.